Marianne Keeshig — Point of View
The old forestry road cut through the bush like a scar — narrow, rutted, and half‑swallowed by snowdrifts. Marianne’s truck bounced hard as she took a bend, headlights slicing through the dark.
Her radio crackled. “Unit Two to Keeshig — we're five minutes out of your position.”
Marianne kept her eyes on the road. “Copy. Slow approach. No lights until I say.”
“Understood.”
She tightened her grip on the wheel. The decoy van remained stalled at the crossing at Milk River. CBSA was doing its part — paperwork delays, secondary inspections, and a conveniently malfunctioning scanner. But that wasn’t the real threat. The real threat moved through the dark ahead of her, transporting cargo that they couldn’t permit reaching Canadian soil.
###
The First Sign
A faint glint caught her eye — something metallic reflecting her headlights from deep in the trees. She slowed the truck. Not a vehicle. Not a person. A marker. A forestry survey stake, freshly placed, with the orange tape still crisp. Marianne frowned. No one had surveyed this road in years.
She stepped out of the truck, boots sinking into the snow. The cold bit at her cheeks as she crouched beside the stake. The tape had a faint imprint — a boot scuff, recently. Someone had brushed against it. Someone is moving fast. She stood and scanned the tree line. The forest was silent. Too silent.
###
The Second Sign
Her radio buzzed.
“Keeshig, we’ve got something,” Unit Two said. “Thermal picked up a heat signature about a kilometer north of you. Large. Slow‑moving.”
Marianne’s pulse jumped. “Vehicle?”
“Most likely.”
“Direction?”
“North‑northwest. Toward the old ranger station.”
Marianne swore under her breath. The ranger station sat near a disused fire road, one that connected to a network of ATV trails leading deeper into the bush. Trails that didn’t appear on any official map. Trails traffickers loved. She climbed back into her truck. “Unit Two, hold position. I’m going ahead.”
“Keeshig, that’s not protocol.”
“I know.”
She floored the accelerator.
###
The Real Route
The forestry road narrowed until it was barely wider than her truck. Branches scraped the sides. Snow kicked up behind her in a white plume. Her headlights caught something ahead. Faint tire tracks were cutting across the road and disappearing into the trees. Not car tires. Not truck tires. Off‑road tires.
She braked hard. The tracks veered off the main road and onto a narrow trail barely visible under the snow. A trail only someone who knew the land would use. She stepped out again, crouching to examine the tracks. Deep tread. Heavy load. Fresh.
Her breath fogged in the cold. “This is it,” she whispered.
The real transport wasn’t using the road. It was using the bush.
###
The Sound
A faint hum drifted through the trees. Low. Steady. Mechanical. Marianne froze. She killed her truck’s engine. The hum grew louder. Closer. She stepped into the shadows beside a spruce tree, hand resting on her holster. The sound resolved into something unmistakable: a box‑style off‑road vehicle. Changed suspension. Heavy cargo. Moving slowly to avoid detection.
Her heart hammered. She whispered into her radio: “Unit Two, I have eyes on the real transport. Repeat, I have eyes on the real transport.”
“Do you need backup?”
“Yes,” she said. “But they won’t get here in time.”
The vehicle emerged from the trees — a dark, windowless box‑van on oversized tires, its headlights off, its engine muffled. Two silhouettes in the cab. No plates. No markings. Exactly what she feared.
###
The Moment of Decision
Marianne pressed herself against the tree, breath shallow. She could let it pass. Wait for backup. Follow at a distance. But the trail ahead split into a dozen smaller paths — any of them could take the vehicle deeper into the bush, toward private land, toward the lake, toward a dozen places where a child could disappear forever.
She whispered: “Not this time.”
She stepped out of the shadows. Raised her flashlight. And aimed it directly at the windshield.
###
The Reaction
The vehicle braked hard, tires skidding on snow. She couldn’t hear what the driver shouted. The passenger reached for something. Marianne’s hand went to her holster.
“RCMP!” she shouted. “Show me your hands!”
The passenger froze. The driver didn’t. He slammed the vehicle into reverse. Snow sprayed. The engine roared. They were trying to back out. Trying to escape. Trying to disappear into the bushes.
Marianne sprinted toward her truck. “Unit Two,” she shouted into the radio, “they’re fleeing north on the fire trail. I’m in pursuit.”
“Copy! We’re moving!”
She threw the truck into gear. The chase began.
###
The Realization
As she sped after the fleeing vehicle, branches whipping past her windows, Marianne felt something cold settle in her chest. The decoy van at Milk River wasn’t just a distraction. It was a test. Solstice wanted to see how fast Canada would respond. And now they knew.
She gripped the wheel tighter. “They’re not getting away,” she whispered.
Not tonight. Not with children behind in the cargo.